Strandpiel 58
Speurwerk
V1.2, tidying for the usual reasons. This will come.
Ideas:-
As always: during the working week, lots and lots and lots of inspiration particles about Things That Might Happen Next and how they could fit into the general plot.
Hoping to wrap up Book One of Strandpiel with at most one more chapter, having set up lots of threads to pick up in Book Two…. with thanks to reader FinnoSwede for correcting my Finnish grammar!
Bitterfontein, the Caarp Country, Rimwards Howondaland. January.
Bekki was getting used to the abrupt dislocation as Wee Archie Aff The Midden completed the ritual movement of the crawstep, and Feegle Space popped out of existence. Boetjie also accepted this as perfectly natural and nothing to be concerned by; the steady wingbeat did not falter once, as ordinary everyday things of the Discworld popped into place around them. Bekki blinked twice to clear her head, and sought to orientate herself. Time had no meaning in Feegle Space: but she reckoned probably twenty minutes had passed, relatively speaking, since her mother and father and sisters had kissed her goodbye in the back garden of Spa Lane. She remembered Dorothea the cook pressing a package of snacks for the journey on her, and Claude wishing her a safe journey, in his dignified butlerian way.
"Aye. Looks like we're here, Mistress." Wee Archie said. From his place in the mane, he looked at her anxiously. Wee Archie's hit-and-miss navigation was improving, she conceded.
"But is it the right here?"
Grindguts The Destroying Demon had accompanied her. He had no faith in Wee Archie's navigation skills, and said so, frequently.
Bekki smiled tolerantly as Feegle and Demon bickered. She felt the cool clement Howondalandian night around her as she circled Boetjie, seeking to orientate herself. She knew Wee Archie had at least found the right country. This was an advance and a step in the right direction. And it was definitely Howondaland. She couldn't see much of the landscape, possibly two thousand feet below. There would be human settlements down there, she knew, and somewhere a town, more than one. And, damn, it's night here. Deep night. But I left Ankh-Morpork at six in the evening…
Bekki winced suddenly. She realised, belatedly, that at this time of year and at this phase of the Great Year, Rimwards Howondaland would be a few hours ahead of Ankh-Morpork. She'd contrived to arrive at between midnight and three in the morning.
But it was definitely Rimwards Howondaland. It smelt right. No sound was coming up, much. But the smells, the very feel – it was her homeland down there. She'd visited often enough. Now all she needed to do was to locate the exact place. Or in this case, a plaas.
She turned to her two companions.
"Stop arguing, you two." she said. "Archie, remember the hint I gave you? What to look for? You're a Feegle. You can smell the stuff from ten miles away."
"Aye, Mistress…"
Wee Archie Aff The Midden stood upright in the mane. He sniffed the air. Bekki smiled to herself as the Feegle literally followed his nose. Then Wee Archie stood upright, reminding her of a hunting dog that has caught an unmistakeable scent. He pointed.
"This way, Mistress." he said, definitely.
"Thank you, Archie."
Bekki looked over her shoulder to check the tethered flying carpet with her luggage was still there, and steered Boetjie in the indicated direction, down and to the right.
With excited intent, Wee Archie gave her directions on the time-honoured "left a wee bit… right a wee bit, straight forwards" principle.
As they flew lower, shapes on the ground started resolving themselves.
There were buildings down there. Sheds, barns, definite signs of some sort of industry, a typically well-ordered plaas, more than a homestead, more than a farm, the large squared-off shapes of bigger buildings where some sort of industry happened. The paler grey of a service road. And Bekki was now beginning to smell the essential nature of the business for herself. Wee Archie was twanging with excitement and intent. She smiled. For a Feegle, this must be like going to Heaven while still alive. And then she saw a light. She smiled. People in this country tended to put lights out at night only if a late-arriving guest was anticipated. And the hostess knew to have them high up so they would be visible from the sky. This was indeed the place. Or plaas.
Bekki concentrated. Night landings were tricky. Olga and Irena had taken her and Sophie on night flights so they, and their mounts, were properly trained in them. The ground could be nearer than you thought at night. Or further away.
But she trusted Boetjie. The Pegasus circled again. Then allowed her to steer him downwards. Eventually there was the thud of a near-perfect four-hoof landing. Bekki relaxed and waited for his wings to fold, then dismounted.
And Boetjie suddenly whinnied. It was a whinny of alarm.
Bekki sensed she wasn't alone and tensed; she read the atmosphere around her. It had growls in it. She fought down the sudden fear and counted…
One, maybe two…
Guard-dogs. She'd arrived late. A typical plaas had its guard-dogs. Patrolling at night. Especially if that plaas manufactured things of value that were attractive to thieves…
Well, I can deal with this….
She was aware of Wee Archie and Grindguts, their bickering over and faced with a threat, conferring and slipping off the Pegasus, working together.
She turned to face the night and saw the Ridgeback. No handler, roaming its domain at night, an ever-present threat to intruders. The huge hunting dog, long, sleek and powerful, did not appear happy to see her and it certainly wasn't going to leap up at her in order to lick her face. Not at all.
Bekki focused.
And a second or two later, the dog was blinking in puzzlement as insistent instructions started happening in its head.
She is friend. Not intruder. Treat her as Mistress. She is not your Goddess. But she is still human who is Alpha. Why don't I trot gently up to her, sniff her in curiosity, then offer myself for a petting and a "good boy!" that's it, her scent has familiarity to it, she is of the Pack of my human…
Bekki returned to herself after a few moments of Borrowing and implanting suggestions in the dog's mind and petted a suddenly confused Ridgeback which was wondering why "Attack!" had turned into "Be friendly".
Elsewhere, another growl was being met by
"Hey! Fido! Youse is looking at a faceful o'heid here!"
She sighed. She read the air again.
Two dogs. And…
And then the shadow she was looking into, near the main huis, resolved itself into a human figure. Somebody had been waiting there, watching. Hidden.
The black-clad figure stepped forward. Bekki had been around her mother and her mother's profession for long enough to read Assassin.
And the Assassin slipped her hood back, revealing long red hair.
"Etzebeth! Willemse! Bly!" she commanded. The dogs, including the one that was realising a Feegle and a Demon might not be a handy bite-sized snack after all, heard the call and trotted obediently back to their mistress. Wee Archie and Grindguts, who had been offering it two elusive fast-moving targets to distract its attention from Bekki, stepped back.
"Your mother warned me you might arrive late." Aunt Mariella said, laconically. "Waited up for you."
Then aunt and niece hugged.
Earlier in December; at the Assassins' Guild School.
Lord Downey poured two sherries and offered one to his guest. The second glass was accepted with thanks.
"I'm sorry to hear you will be leaving us." he said. "But there is no doubt your new appointment will be very prestigious indeed for the Guild. And for yourself, of course."
Canon Clement N'Effible, the Guild Chaplain and Principal Tutor in Religious Studies, smiled slightly.
"Indeed, sir. But my sister's word will very soon be Royal Command. You do not refuse."
"Indeed, Clement." Downey agreed. They sipped their sherries reflectively.
"It is to be expected, sir." Clement said. "The current generation of Ambassadors are largely brothers of my father who were appointed shortly after his accession to the Paramount Throne. They were appointed for the usual sorts of reasons: to informally exile a brother who would only have caused trouble at Home, or else to reward a brother who was genuinely loyal with a prestigious appointment, and, every so often, to ensure a key overseas posting is filled by a man who would be genuinely good at it, and an asset to the Empire. The third is rare, but not un-known."
Downey smiled.
"And which of the three reasons do you think applies to you?" he asked.
Clement shrugged.
"Definitely the second. Sometimes I allow myself the thought that the third also applies."
"It would be surprising if it didn't." Downey said. "Ruth… Her Majesty… is taking the opportunity to prepare for her accession. So prestigious for us, that a former pupil is becoming a Queen, by the way. Very prestigious indeed. She is clearing out the old order, and easing people in of her own choosing. And with perhaps half a year to go before her elevation to the throne, she is making her choices, with the knowledge and approval of her father, and King Mpandwe is signing the necessary decrees. From a human point of view, it allows your uncle to make an unhurried handover to you as the Zulu Empire's new Ambassador to Ankh-Morpork, and he may then have a long and happy retirement in your homeland. And to say farewell to his brother before he dies."
"I will require leave, sir, to train for my new position."
"Approved. It goes without saying. Any assistance we can provide is there. You need only ask. My Lady T'Malia has expressed a willingness to advise, where she can. Her background is in diplomacy and politics, after all. Lord Vetinari will no doubt wish to congratulate you on your new post and to make formal accreditation. You need preparation for that, if nothing else. Now, have you given any thought as to your successor in your post here? Any recommendations?"
"I have a few ideas as to suitable people who may be approached, sir."
The PFW Stadium, Ankh-Morpork
Shauna O'Hennigan wrapped her coat firmly around her and tried to shut out the winter evening chill. This meant her working day extended further into the evening. But at least she was doing something different, finding out more about what the Smith-Rhodes Management and Marketing Consultancy actually did, getting out of the office to take a look at one of the businesses it was a Consultant to. Claire had brought her along, and advised her to wrap up warm. Very warm.
The PFW Stadium was a relatively new development in the city. It had been built on the site of a redundant cattleyard in the Shambles, a building space made open by a lot of the city's droving, slaughtering and butchering industries having been moved out of the older City into New Ankh. That had made traffic management easier, for one thing: the roads into the City now had less herds of animals being driven down its streets, thus causing bottlenecks and gridlock. It also made the Ankh marginally cleaner, as there was no longer the effluent of thousands of worried animals being discharged into the street and then into the river.
And an entrepreneurial Assassin with a sporting passion had seen the opportunity: the SRMMC had backed her and formed a consortium with other investors. The PFW Stadium took its name from one of those commercial backers, the adjacent Pork Futures Warehouse.
For good reason, Claire had said. Against all probability, chèrie, it gets colder inside. You will see.
Shauna shrugged. She had a job to do here. She carried on, standing to one side of the turnstile, behind a poster advertising a game between a team called Les Feuilles d'érable and one called the Suomen leijonat,(1) clicking her counting device once for every paying spectator admitted. There were quite a lot of them. Acerians, mainly, on this turnstile, but quite a lot of Ankh-Morporkian natives who were genuinely interested in a strange foreign sport that up until now had had no opportunity to flourish in the City.
As the flow of spectators ebbed, Shauna consulted a nearby clock. Claire had said to meet up at seven-thirty for the puck-off. Shauna shrugged. That's what she said. The puck-off. It was all pretty mysterious. Shauna had never bothered overmuch with sports, apart from the obligatory interest in the Dimmers. Anything other than eleven-a-side was a closed book to her and the back pages of newspapers quite often had a good-looking lad or two in the iconographs, but she skimmed the text. She preferred it that way. Ah well, time to puck off.
She met up with the rest, at a staff and authorised persons only entrance to the stadium. Each of them had been at a turnstile with a counter. Claire checked their counts and meticulously noted them down.
"I make this an attendance of eleven thousand, four hundred, and eighty-seven." she said, after a while. "Not a capacity crowd, but then, tonight's is not the most important game. So if each of those paying spectators has passed over fifteen pence at the gate, then we will expect, later, to see a total of one thousand, seven hundred and twenty-three dollars and five pence counted in the cash office."
And there are the catering firms present. We'll need to check their takings too." Jeremy said.
"Indeed." Claire agreed. "That their licence agreements are in order, that no unauthorised vendors are present, and that they are paying the agreed percentage of their take as rent to the stadium. But first, mes amis, I believe we have time to watch a little of the game. Shall we puck off inside?"
Eleven thousand people in a relatively small and necessarily enclosed space make a lot of noise, Shauna thought. Faith, it was like a football ground with a roof on. Except that football – and there was a familiar sort of playing field down there, with a netted goal at each end – was never played on a field of smooth cold ice. She wondered how the feck the players kept upright.
"You have never been here before, Shauna?" Claire said, kindly. "Then I shall explain."
The visitors were at the top of one of the banks of seats, watching from above. Claire had chosen the seating with care: it allowed them to look down on the game, whatever the feck form the game took, and along at the upper concourse where the catering businesses maintained their franchise. Shauna gathered that was important too, possibly more so than whatever sport was going to be played here.
Claire explained: there is a teacher at the Assassins' School, who she had a sort of kinship with, as we speak broadly the same language, although I am from Quirm and she is from Aceria. We both speak Quirmian, anyway. This girl from Quirmian Aceria, habituated to long cold winters with much snow and ice, arrived here and discovered to her disgust that the ice-skates and other things she had brought with her were useless here. No real winter to speak of. And even if the Ankh froze over, would you wish to strap on ice skates and trust yourself to its surface?
"Ice skates." Shauna said. She'd heard of them. They sounded bloody dangerous. Claire nodded.
"This girl soon discovered the Pork Futures Warehouse. Having been taught how to pick locks, she broke in. To practice her skating. Frequently. And she was detained by the Watch. If they could catch her."
Shauna had a sudden vision of Watchmen skidding and falling on the ice, trying to arrest a girl on ice-skates who was effortlessly eluding them. Sam Vimes would have gone spare. Lord Downey, she suspected, might have been lenient to a pupil who succeeded in embarrassing Vimes.
"What can I say? Eventually she graduated and a little later, rejoined the School as a teacher. Then she made arrangements with the PFW's owners to rent one of the large empty warehouses for recreation. She – and they – discovered many people would pay to see this sport. And also, when no games were being played, to learn to skate there. When the neighbouring stockyard fell vacant after Gerhardt Sock moved his business to New Ankh – well, Antoinette de Badin-Boucher asked if there was any reason why the force which sustained the Pork Futures Warehouse should not sustain a larger space still."
"And does it?" Shauna asked. Claire pointed upwards into the curving roof-space. Shauna followed the point. It was hard to make out at first, but they were hanging there: row upon row of translucent, not-quite-there-yet, Pork Futures. Apparently their presence generated the power that kept this place cold. Or something.
"And we look after her business interests here, to ensure she is not being cheated." Claire said. "Our employer too, as she also has money invested here. Thus, we are here to perform an audit."
After a while, Shauna watched the crowd for faces she recognised. Then she frowned. Something didn't feel right…. She leant across and asked "There are turnstile entrances here where people pay to get in. There's a staff door where we came in. Are there other ways in and out?"
Claire conferred with Jeremy. He frowned and said "not that I know of. None." He paused. "Well. There are the fire exits. They had to be added to the plans. To evacuate in an emergency…"
Shauna grinned.
"Yes, but are they locked?" she asked. "Who guards them?"
She smiled a happy smile as the others looked at each other, the penny appearing to drop.
Claire nodded. She stood up.
"Shauna, come with me, please. We will merely appear to be two women going to the privy, for as everybody knows, women attend the privy in pairs. Our leaving will not be remarked upon. The security manager here is a Troll, is he not? Who is ideal for the task, as this is a very cold place? Bien, let us locate him…"
They went for a little walk together.
The other members of the party kept their seats for them and settled down to watch the game. After a while the teams came out. And pucked off.
Claire and Shauna returned about fifteen minutes into the game. Claire had a brief conference with Jeremy, over hot coffee at a concession stand. They both looked at Shauna, who was now trying to make sense of the game. It was like eleven-a-side played on iceskates with hockey sticks and a small flat ball. Shauna watched the ensuing brawl on ice, with a little hockey being played now and again in between brawls and fights; periodically a player was sent off to the sin-bin for five or ten minutes, and sat in isolation behind thick glass walls. A crowd drawn largely from places like Aceria, Swommi, Hubsvensska and Far Überwald was cheering them on.
"Jeremy, she was right." Claire said. "And, ma foi, I did not notice. I did not even think of it."
Jeremy nodded in the direction of Shauna, over on the top tier of the bleacher seating. She was engrossed in the game, not listening.
"She's from Dimwell. She knows how to get into paying events without going to the bother of paying for a ticket. Apparently, her brothers and their friends sneak into eleven-a-side games through unlocked fire exits, when they're short of money."
He shook his head.
"And an unsupervised steward responsible for security at the fire exit gate takes, as his cut, five pence from each person he lets in. Ten pence less than the official ticket price. So there are possibly two hundred people in this arena who didn't pay at the turnstiles. And a now sacked and arrested steward with a pocketful of coins, who had just doubled his pay for the week in one evening."
The steward had been detained by Mr Stonecrop, the security manager, and the Watch had been called. Neither he nor the people sneaking in had elected to offer fight to an obvious Assassin and a looming troll. Shauna had been told to fall back and be discreet: Claire was concerned that people from Dimwell might recognise her face and mark her for the informal vengeance due to those who grass.(2)
"And we would not have noticed." Claire said. "We would have audited here, we would have assured ourselves the numbers tallied, the correct amount is being banked, and that the figures on paper were correct. We did not think to look for other ways of cheating the system and defrauding our investors. Shauna did. She spotted people in this arena who she is aware do not usually trouble themselves with trifling matters such as paying for tickets, and asked how they could have got in."
They both looked to Shauna again. She was watching the game and eating popcorn from a paper bag.
"I believe I see why Doctor Smith-Rhodes wanted to employ her." Jeremy remarked. Claire gave him a tolerant look.
"Vraiment, mon ami? I saw this in her straight away."
From the newspaper Die Burgher en het Volksblat, Pratoria, Rimwards Howondaland. Morporkian-language edition.
From our Special Correspondent Miss Suki van der Graaf, on the Border with the Zulu Empire, on the Ulunghi Bend in the Transvaal, Wednesday;
Ons grond, ons Nasie, ons Volk!
The Transvaal is a special place. It marks the furthest extent of our people's trek into the continent, the place where Boer expansion ended, where our people become truly a frontier folk, those who are the first line of defence of our great Nation against those who would take from us what we have and hold dear. Here everything is a kaplyn. Here is the ground we hold in our fists and defend, where it needs it, with our fists. Our ground, our nation, our Volk.
Once the Boer peoples sought to extend ourselves further, to the Blood River which is now deep inside the Zulu Empire. This ground was untenable so we fell back to the Ulunghi, a river which now marks the kaplyn between ourselves and the Empire. Those who returned from the Blood River determined there was to be no further retreat. One day we may regain the lost lands between the Ulunghi and the Blood Rivers. But this we have and we hold and will defend against all comers.
This determination radiated from the men, and indeed the women I was privileged to ride out with, the men of the Piemburg Volkskommando, the inheritors of the proud Boer farmer-fighter spirit, the men who laid down the tools of peaceful agriculture to defeat first proud Morporkia and then the aggressions of the Zulu Empire.
Riding with such men – and women – I knew with absolute certainty that they would fight again, and fight to the bitter end, should they need to. Their homes, their lives, their families, are here, in the semi-wild country of the Transvaal, a place of great stark beauty, untamed veldt and bush punctuated only occasionally by cultivated fields and human settlement. Such a country breeds exceptional people. Even the senior officer of the regular Army who accompanied us, a man who reporting restrictions forbid me from naming nor even identifying his unit, freely admitted as such. He knew straight away that they would be hard men to fight and harder to defeat, if such a thing were possible.
And we rode the River, looking at the land opposite that in all respects was identical to our own, save that it belongs for now to the Zulu Empire. A nation we know is entering a period of great uncertainty as its leadership and very complexion changes, and uncertainty brings a need for watchfulness.
The riders of the Piemburg Volkskommando are patrolling the river now more often and in greater strength, not to seek war with our neighbours but to demonstrate to them: we are here. We are watching. We are prepared. You stay on your side of the River and we will stay on ours and there will be no conflict. But dare cross, and we will receive you.
For a period, a patrol of Zulu soldiers marched the other side of the river in step with us, breaking into an easy loping run as if to demonstrate that a running human can keep pace with a trotting horse. They were demonstrating to us too. Veldskornet Andreas Smith-Rhodes, my host on this ride, was not perturbed by this: he identified them by their green and orange distinctions as men of the local impi who guard their side of the river, and explained this is not out of the ordinary and nothing to be perturbed by.
A huge man, known as Baby Barbarossa to distinguish him from his equally distinguished father – and such a baby, well over six feet tall, extravagantly bearded and heavily muscled - Andreas Smith-Rhodes explained what it is to live and work and be vigilant on the river border. He is a veteran of past fights with the Zulus, and well remembers times when they dared cross the River in strength, only to be contained, repulsed and driven back. He nodded to his wife Cornelia who also rode with us, and said that in this place, everybody who can ride and fire a crossbow fights. His wife and all three of his sisters, Andreas said, have fought Zulus. And we are all still here. Many Zulus are not. He conceded an aunt who he loved died in battle with them, and was silent for a few moments. But all who live on this border and are our Nation's primary line of defence have lost loved ones in defending the integrity of our land. For that they deserve the thanks of all our peoples.
The senior regular officer who rode with us expressed his admiration, and said he would report back to the Bureau of Defence that the Border here was in safe hands, and the Volkskommando fit for war. Andreas Smith-Rhodes considered this for a moment and replied, laconically, that if we were not ready to fight, then we would not be here, would we? An official observer from Ankh-Morpork also rode with us. No doubt she will make similar observations when she reports back to Lord Vetinari in his faraway city. Married to a local man from Pratoria, she had every right to be here: she remarked to me, expressing a deep understanding of our people and our culture, that should a Day of Reckoning arise, the time for heroes will come again, and she sensed she was riding among the heroes.
Spa Lane, Ankh-Morpork. Also in December.
Olga Romanoff gave an account of her visit to Howondaland. She had brought copies of local newspapers with her. Johanna Smith-Rhodes took time to read the relevant parts, and shook her head.
"Jislaik. Suki really lays it on with a spade, doesn't she?"
Olga smiled slightly.
"She takes liberties. I never quite said that about the Day of Reckoning. Perhaps she misunderstood my accent or my admittedly bad Vondalaans."
"Ag, you're improving. You'll end up like Ponder. He'll never lose thet odd eccent he hes, but there's no denying he cen speak the lenguege very well indeed."
Olga refrained from remarking that Johanna had never lost her accent when she spoke Morporkian. She wondered if this would be the case: she'd end up speaking Vondalaans fluently but with an accent that betrayed she wasn't a native speaker; while Eddie, who was getting better all the time at Rus, would speak her language with an exotic foreign twist. And their children would be native-fluent in both, just like Johanna and Ponder's. And in Morporkian, a language that was not first preference for either Eddie or Olga.
Olga broke off and had a conversation with a third party who was invisible to Johanna. Rebecka Smith-Rhodes, who was also present, joined in. Johanna sighed, resignedly. It wasn't insanity: it was Witchcraft. She gathered that her aunt was present and had been reading the newspaper report over Johanna's shoulder. And was now remarking on it.
Nice of Andreas to remember me. But eish, that meisie Suki needs to know I don't think of myself as any sort of heroine. I rode out, I fought Zulus, a day or two later my heart gave in and I died. Nothing to do with Zulus, just my bloody bad heart. So gaan dit.
Bekki repeated this for her mother, who nodded, understanding.
"So gaan dit." Johanna repeated. So it goes.
"If it helps, Crowbar Dreyer turned up. With Suki. Your father gave him the flamethrower treatment. You know, just on principle. Suki is his niece, after all."
"Eish. Twice in one lifetime." Johanna remarked. "Once over me, end the second time because Father felt responsible over his niece. Did Mother have a word too?"
Olga nodded, a smile spreading over her face.
"You know, the Crowbar took it meekly. I really don't think it made a difference to your father that he was laying down the law to a very senior General with a lot of firepower. And General Dreyer struck me as the sort of man who knows when he's outnumbered, when not to fight a battle. If it helps, Dreyer wants to send some of his people to the border to help out. Your father had strong opinions to express about that, too. He said, and I quote freely, he's damned if he's hosting a bunch of fight-happy maniacs who can only make the situation worse. You know. The ones who might just slip over to the other side of the river to stir things up a bit just for the Hell of it."
Johanna nodded. Then pointed out she'd served with the said fight-happy psycho maniacs during her own Army service.
"Ah. No offence."
"None taken. Father was probebly quite right. And Father also pointed out that while Dreyer's people get to go beck to their berrecks later, he end his family would still be there, to take eny consequences efterwards?"
Olga nodded.
"Dreyer accepted that this was a consideration too, but he asked your father to take into consideration that if his forces are officially ordered to patrol the Ulunghi Bend, that over-rules your father's objections."
Johanna took a deep inward breath through her teeth.
"Eina. He said thet to my father? In his own plaas?"
Olga nodded.
"I thought it was wise to step in then. I suggested a compromise. Dreyer wants to send people in to observe and watch. Your father is dead against having something like the Slew in his parish because it might complicate things. I said. Barbarossa, two of your daughters served in the Slew with officer rank. Why not have your daughter Mariella, or else her husband Horst, supervise them? Mariella would understand not to do anything agressive. She would certainly have an interest in not provoking any trouble. And I said I could run this past you when I went back to Ankh-Morpork, get your opinion."
Johanna considered this for a few moments. Then she said
"Perheps I hev en idea too. I need to speak to people. Make a plen."
Claude the butler stepped forward. He cleared his throat.
"My lady, Lieutenant Politek of the Pegasus Service is here. She asks to speak to you concerning her own recent visit to the Zulu Empire. She understands Captain Romanoff is also here."
Johanna and Olga looked at each other.
"Show her in, Claude."
Olga smiled benevolently at Bekki.
"I hope you're taking all this in, devuschka." she said. "This is Pegasus Service stuff. You need to listen well, understand what you're hearing, make good judgement calls, and report back accurately to the right people. You'll learn."
Bekki blinked. The idea she was going to have to practice diplomacy as well as deliver messages – and occasionally people – was daunting. Not for the first time she wondered if she was up to it. But it comes with the wingèd horse.
But Godsmother Irena was here now, and was being warmly welcomed by Johanna and Olga. Her flight had been to the Zulu Empire, to the Royal Kraal and to Ruth's Lioness City. And she was here to compare notes with Olga, who had done the parallel run into White Howondaland.
Her news summated laconically. King Mpandwe was discharging his Royal duties in the brief periods between opiate-induced pain relief and succumbing into sleep. Ruth was taking on more and more of the duties of Regent, ruling in his stead, with only brief visits to her own City, which was largely under the administration of her trusted subordinates Sissi N'kima and Chakki N'Golante.
Johanna nodded satisfaction.
"I taught them both." she said. "Good pupils. Very good greduetes. I em pleased."
"Ruth is currently reviewing senior overseas postings around the Disc." Irena said. "Diplomats and missions. These are largely staffed with her father's appointees. I believe she is to recall and retire most of them and replace them with people of her own choosing. I suspect she might even take the novel point of view that Ambassadors should be able people who are going to be good at it, not sinecure postings awarded out of nepotism or political necessity."
Johanna nodded. She had heard on the grapevine who the new Ambassador to Ankh-Morpork was going to be. She approved of this: a clever and able Zulu who had spent most of his life in Ankh-Morpork and who was utterly loyal to Ruth. And Assassin-trained.
"And here's the other thing, Johanna. Ruth is deploying her cavalry to the borders. You know. The unexpected surprise weapon that rolled all over the Muntabians. She's recruited more of them since. And had them trained by Cossacks."
Irena grinned and patted the sabre at her hip.
"Do you know, they've trained their cavalry to sing things like Ruskaya'rat?" Irena remarked. "And Ойся ты ойся. I know Zulus like to sing war-chants, but I never expected that. It took me by surprise. Ended up dancing the shaksha with her cavalry commander. A lot of her cavalry were watching. They want to learn how to do it."
Olga stepped forward and sniffed her friend's breath. She shook her head. Irena waved her away, impatiently.
"And I had a glass of vodka with Zoya. Or two. And don't look at me like that, Olga. так оно и есть, нет?"
"Nichevo." Olga said, understandingly. Can't be helped. Olga contemplated her own empty glass. Claude smoothly whisked it away at a nod from Johanna.
"So Ruth's sending her horsewomen to the Border." Johanna said. "There's a big risk."
"Indeed." Irena said. "Which is why she wants to use an unofficial channel of communication with the Rimwards Howondalandian government."
Irena accepted a glass of vodka from Claude with thanks. He delivered refilled drinks to Olga and Johanna. Bekki shook her head at the butlerian raised eyebrow.
"Just a straight soda water for me, please, Claude. With a dash of lime juice. Dankie." Bekki had never really got the hang or the taste of anything alcoholic.
"Very wise, devushka." Irena said. Or should I say, жар-птица?"
Olga went very poker-faced.
"You have my permission to hang the nose-art on the forward panniers of your Pegasus." she said. "It is good art. Your sister put some effort into it. I approve."
"Thank you." Bekki said. Nose-art was a tradition of the Service; every Pegasus pilot carried a distinctive picture on her forward panniers. Hanna von Strafenburg decorated hers with stylised lightning bolts, for instance. Her Pegasus was a stallion called Blitzen, Lightning. (3)
Ruth had taken measurements of the forward panniers carried on a Pegasus. And had then retired to her art studio. A day or two later, she had shyly presented Bekki with left and right matching pictures of a phoenix emerging from the flames. The flames, Bekki noticed, were largely the orange-red of her own hair. It was a nice touch. Underneath the bird, on both sides, was the Rus name she'd been given by the witch Xenia Galena.
жар-птица
And underneath that, the Vondalaans translation
die Vuurvoël.
Bekki loved it.
" Zhar-ptitsa." Irena said, thoughtfully.
Olga went very poker and thoughtful for an instant.
"Da. Zhar-ptitsa." she said. "Rebecka, I advise you not to have that added in Morporkian characters. Or to Morporkians you will ever be…"
"Yes. Sharp-tits. I know." Bekki sighed.
Olga reached over and patted her hand. "But your call-sign is Firebird. I like that. It will serve."
"Cavalry." Johanna prompted. Irena sipped her vodka.
"Ruth's cavalry. Who over winter will be herded to where the best grass is. Which is generally close to rivers." Irena said. "Ruth is very anxious that this is not taken as a hostile gesture. Her riders are there to deter her troublesome brother. And to return a fast reply to her command kraal when her brother's army is seen to march. If they fight at all, it will be a brief and hopefully conclusive engagement with her brother's forces. So that he realises who the true Paramount Monarch is, and that it is not him. They are not there to seek war with your people. She really hopes your father and brother will understand this and that they are not to be alarmed. She also reminds your brother Andreas they met at Danie and Heidi's engagement party, and he was quite appreciative of her. She asks him to remember when they took a drink together, and agreed better to drink than fight."
"Ja, I remember." Johanna said. She turned round to see her youngest daughter coming into the room.
"Ruthie, you know I love you, but we'll have to be quick, as Mummy is busy right now… what have you got there, sweetheart?"
Ruth was holding a large mechanical something.
"I made this for Bekki, mummy."
She turned and looked shyly at Irena and Olga.
"Would you like to see it, too? You might like to see."
Olga smiled back.
"What have you got, little one? It looks like a clock."
Ruth held out the device. It measured about ten inches across and might have had clockwork somewhere in its ancestry. Something clock-like was ticking, anyway.
"I knew Bekki was having problems with working out what time it was going to be wherever she was going. That sounds like a really difficult problem. And I thought. What if you can build a clock that tells you what time it is, anywhere you go on the Disc? I wondered if you could buy one. Then I discovered nobody had built one before."
"Nobody needed to." Irena said. "Till now." She leant over, intrigued. It looked as if a map of the disc had been painted on a large flat plate. The standard lines of longitude had been painted over it, radiating from Cori Celesti in the dead centre. The concentric circles were evenly spaced, beginning from their mutual centre at Cori Celesti. The Dimwell Meridian was picked out in red. So far, standard geography. But a single small clock face occupied the centre. It appeared to have more than one set of hands, each set in a different colour.
Ruth rotated an outer bezel. As it clicked, one set of hands on the central clock rotated with it. She explained this represented the Head of the Turtle, which as the Disc moves will appear in a different place on each of the eight hundred days of the Great Year. This in turn affects where the Sun apparently rises and sets each day. Then you take Absolute Noon as the time when the sun is at its highest over Cori Celesti. This is the starting point for all Disc time. You set the day, you ensure the main clock is showing Cori Celesti time. Then the mechanism sets first the time here, in Ankh-Morpork, which depending on the day in the Great Year can be two or three hours ahead or behind Cori Celesti. Right now it is twenty past eight in the evening here. So if today, on the three hundred and ninetieth day of the Great Year, you wish to know what time it is in Genua, over here. Move this other pointer round on the bezel until it points at Genua. Then watch the third set of hands on the clock rotate and settle. At this moment it is seven in the morning there. Well, three minutes to seven.
"Err. It isn't very accurate right now. It may be two or three minutes out in either direction. And I can't make it any smaller. Yet. But what do you think?"
Olga had pulled out a standard Watch notepad and pencil and was furiously calculating. Irena was assisting her. They compared their calculations.
"Genua. In this moment. Two minutes to seven in the morning." Olga said, eventually. Uneasily, she realised this manual calculation, even with her own experience, had taken her three or four times longer than Ruth's device.
"Slava bogu." Irena said. Dear Gods.
Johanna was considering her daughter's work. Ruth was guiding her mother in working out the current time in Rimwards Howondaland. Johanna moved the pointers on the clock. The new kind of clock. She watched as the hands rotated into place and settled on a time.
Such a brilliant idea…
Olga whooped and swept Ruth up into her arms, kissing her on both cheeks. She reverted to speaking delightedly in Rus.
"ты красивая маленькая девочка и гений! Целую тебя, прекрасный умный ребенок!"
"We need these for the Service." Irena said, equally delightedly, as Bekki, leaning over to observe the miraculous device, caught fragments like "Beautiful clever little girl" from Olga's excitement.
"Ruth, clever devushka, did you make drawings? Did you make notes for your design?"
"Of course I did." Ruth said, managing to look a little bit miffed somebody had thought to ask that.
"If you wish for this to be copied end built commercially." said Johanna, "Copyright in this device is my daughter's. End you will need et least seventeen. A fee for each one will be paid to Ruth. We cen decide the emounts later."
Bitterfontein, the Caarp Country, Rimwards Howondaland. January.
Bekki sat in the kitchen with her aunt. A pot of rooibos tea was on the table between them. Aunt Mariella smiled happily.
"I need to help you get your things to your room." she said. "We can both get some sleep justnow, then later on I can show you around."
She reached down to pet one of her dogs. Both had accepted Bekki. Although both were wary around Grindguts and Wee Archie.
"I am very intrigued as to how you managed to get Etzebeth practically eating out of your hand." Mariella said. "He can be difficult around new people. A witch thing, ja-nie?"
She turned to Demon and Feegle.
"A few ground rules." she said, in Morporkian. She nodded to Wee Archie, who had been provided a small glass of klipdrift, which Mariella conceded was fair, as he'd brought Bekki here.
"Es you have noticed, this is a vineyard end a distillery. You are a nac mac Feegle. I see potential for misunderstendings here."
Mariella glared at the young Feegle.
"There is to be no bringing your friends here, unless I permit it. Is thet clearly understood?"
"Aye, mistress." Wee Archie said, submissively. He noted Bekki nodding at him.
"You may go where you wish. But should you go into the distillery and the bottling plant, nothing leaves with you unless you have leave to take it. Is thet elso clearly understood?"
Bekki nodded again.
"Aye, Mistress Mariella." Wee Archie agreed.
Mariella smiled at him.
Tomorrow you meet my husband's mother, who is mevrou here. If you think I am scary, wait till you meet mevrou Hendricka." she advised him. "But if we understend there are rules, we will get on."
"How's uncle Horst?" Bekki asked.
"Same old. He wanted to wait up to meet you. But I told him not to be a bliksem all his life, he has to be up early in the morning and it's best he gets his sleep. You'll see him at breakfast. By the way, you got the calculations wrong for travelling here, didn't you? Been up hours waiting for you to arrive."
Bekki went slightly red. The marvellous calculating clock was still in Ankh-Morpork, so that clever artificers and clockmakers could use it as a guide for building copies for the Pegasus pilots. The Clockmakers' guild had assured Lord Vetinari they could miniaturise the device and have the first working versions ready for issue by February. Ruth was indeed being paid handsomely for her work. Mum had made sure of this. Her management consultancy had expanded the file on Ruth's investments and income streams. Bekki sighed; the way her sister was going she'd be worth a lot of money even before leaving school. But she, Rebecka, could have done the manual working-out better.
"Took Rivka and me eighteen months to get from Ankh-Morpork to here." Mariella said, looking at Bekki. "You can do it in half an hour. Ag, that's progress. You're taking me up for a flight on Boetjie sometime, of course."
"Be delighted." Bekki said.
They talked family and friends through another cup of tea, then went to bed. Tomorrow would be a new day. And a new life.
Bekki fell asleep, noting Etzebeth the ridgeback curling up to sleep at the foot of her bed. The dog had really taken to her. Bekki fell asleep, remembering a little girl of three or four who had gone to sleep with a ridgeback watching guard over her…
And here, finally, ends Book One. Book Two will follow sometime. I may come back to add a scene (so that all three sisters get an appearance) where Famke gets a practical test of her assassin skills from Miss Glynnie. But this first book of Strandpiel finishes here.
Book Two will be Strandpiel; Welcome to Howondaland. Coming soon.
(1) Apologies to Finnish readers: I know the national ice hockey side is called the Lions, but not sure how it grammatically becomes the Finnish Lions. I'm on sounder ground with an, er, Canadian side calling itself the Maple Leaves, though.
(2) "Doctor Smith-Rhodes wishes you to become an Associate Member of the Assassins' Guild, ma petite? That will be for the best, I think. It entitles you to a degree of protection." Shauna had considered this, pulled the hood of her cloak up to conceal her face, and tried to project the confident menace of a second back-up Assassin. It helped that she was wearing black.
(3) Blitzen in Gernan shares a root and a meaning with the cognate Dutch, bliksem. Which apparently only means "lightning" in Dutch. Dutch people may or may not know of the primary meaning of the word "bliksem" in Afrikaans. Which can sometimes mean merely "lightning" in South African usage… but one Dutch person I know was genuinely innocent of the word's primary meaning in a closely related language…
Notes Dump:
Russian – the domovoy, house-spirit. Apparently in Russia a bouquet with an even number of flowers in it is for funerals, odd numbers for anything else…
жар-птица, zhar-ptitsa – the firebird. Stravinsky reference. Listen to the piece to get ideas. Жар-птица